


intertwined ( and we're far from fucking free )

by serendipitys



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drabble, F/F, Healthy Unhealthy Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Mentally Ill Character, POV Second Person, Song fic, Trans Female Character, Unstable Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 00:07:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10864950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipitys/pseuds/serendipitys
Summary: (un)safe from the worldbut the world will always try.





	intertwined ( and we're far from fucking free )

**Author's Note:**

> my name is miles and im gay ):  
> i wanted to write smth about my oc hehehe bc this song reminded me of her so much  
> ft. my friend's oc
> 
> i lov u rinko  
> u and alex <3
> 
> unedited and i dont got no beta byebye

**i.**

_Skin._

You hated your skin. Your darkish, freckled filled, bruised and scarred skin. There's hair all over your arms, hair all over your legs, your chest; places that indicate you aren't female. Your entire body in general: a storm. And this storm wasn't the good type.

You've always wanted to pry your body apart. Take your eyes away, cut your genitals away, take your fucking face away and let it desecrate; let your entire body rot as your flesh is exposed to the sun. To the world. Let everyone in this very world with eyes watch you decay and be devoured by the bugs that'll dig themselves into your casket.

But she,  _she_ insists otherwise. Says that you're beautiful.  _You're such a goddamn beautiful girl, Pia, don't you know that?_

And she insists further, kissing your scars, your bruises, buries her face in your chest not caring that there's hair there. You're so beautiful in those eyes of her, and god did you want to cry but no one cries during sex, don't do it.

You do it anyway.

It's  _heat_ you feel as your bodies lock together. Your body in her arms, legs wrapped around yours. It's ... Hideous. To you, that is, to see such pure, beautiful pale skin to be placed next to yours. Such a sinful thought to have her luscious lips land on your chapped ones. Such a fictitious idea to have an angel lie next to one who's too soiled. 

It's too good to be true. To have a girl love you like this.

You watch her sleep and there's hair in her mouth. You don't take it off. You watch her sleep and snore like an absolute angel and a tear emerges from your eyes, trailing down your cheek.

She's awoken by the flinching that you do. "  _Hey,_ " A whisper akin to a strum of a harp. "  _What's wrong?_ "

_Everything._

_Everything's fucking wrong. Me, you, us, together- That's wrong. It's so fucking wrong._

She says those voices are the one's that's wrong.

You don't let them tell you what to say. " Nothing. " It's a lie. A white lie.

She's too tired to argue. Lashes fall to kiss skin and she's asleep again.

It's cold and the blanket's too short for the both of you, but your feet's touching hers and her entire body's warm enough to let heat radiate by you two cuddling.

And then, you sleep.

**ii.**

_You._

Tragedy-ridden girl. You're far from beautiful: this is what the world tells you.

It's disgusting how the world romanticizes tragedy. There's nothing romantic about a tragedy. It's not Juliet asking the stars on why their fate's written as star-crossed lovers. It's not Romeo promising that he'll do everything in his power just so they can be together alas as they'd run to a happily ever after. It's not Ophelia's body laid across a lake as flowers embroil her body. It's not beauty.

It's Romeo letting the poison's taste run over his lips and tongue rather than the taste of Juliet's lips. It's the dagger that takes Juliet's breath away rather than Romeo's kiss. It's Ophelia's corpse falling into the abyss of the brook as she drowns in her own misery.

It's _revolting._

And with these tragedies scripted in the marrow of your bones, you're the epitome of fucking _revolting._

And then there's _her._

Beautiful girl. You swear to the heavens above that whenever you look at that girl, a halo pops and hovers from her head, angel wings protrude from her back. She's an angel, you know it, and now that you've thought about it, she doesn't need wings or a halo to prove that she's an angel.

She's so beautiful. With her cotton candy hair, her ocean blue eyes. The oversized sweaters she wears and would have sweater paws despite so. The way the sun would draw circles on her face as she'd tend to care for the Cacti she'd put by the windowsill. This girl can plant an entire zoo in your stomach for it to rumble and tremble like an earthquake.

The epitome of beauty. Kissed by Aphrodite herself.

They say that opposites attract and maybe happy endings would go with catastrophes.

She insists that you'll be safe here. Together, with her, especially as she wraps her arms around your clothed waist as you'd flip pancakes. As you'd stay up late until three thirty-two AM just to finish revising a book you're writing, her head cradled on your lap. As she'd kiss you like you were dying, and _god_  were you dying in both metaphorical and literal senses.

Maybe it's the PPD, but _god_  did you swear that whenever you look at her you feel like the world will take this beautiful girl away from your arms. That another guy or girl or person would just swoop in and she'd realize she deserves better ( and believe me; _she does_  ) and would leave you for good. So you forcefully lock her in your arms, claw your nails in your skin to mark that _she's yours, she's yours, god she's only yours she's no one else's, no one, no one!_

_...Right?_

Except she's not.

After all,

Happy endings don't go with tragedies.

**iii.**

_Numb._

The feeling that reigns your bones and veins as you'd lock yourself isolated in your room. You'd cower in fear, knees pressed against chest, head wrapped in your own arms and you attempt to drown yourself in your very own tears. You cry and you cry and you cry and suddenly you can't feel anymore. You can't feel anything, it's like wandering into absolute nothingness and being sucked into a black hole and yet even with these plethora of emotions vomited on you say that you're-

_Fine._

This is what you say whenever she asks what's wrong. Whenever she'd place her hand on yours as you'd eat your dinner, eyebrows frowning in worry as a frown's drawn on her face.  She says she hates it when you lie, and _god_  do you hate it when you lie too but what can you do?

You're too selfish. Too fucking selfish to let her know what you're feeling because you feel like she'll leave and won't handle you anymore because you're a _goddamn_ hurricane that's drowning herself in her own screams and cries and blisters and pain. You can't let her deal with that. You think that she wouldn't want to, and you don't want her to go.

But in these moments of misery and melancholy in your life, she's the only sunshine that attempts to pierce in your sack of absolute darkness. She's the only being who's able to paint a genuine smile on your face by simple, repeated syllables of her laugh. Of her smile. Of the stars that you're sure to have found it's home in her eyes.

**iv.**

You break down eventually.

You hate yourself so, _so_  fucking much but you can't help it. _God_ , you can't fucking help it. You hate these thoughts. You hate these voices that try to fuck over with your mind and your body and the entirety of your sanity so you're begging her, _god_  you're begging her to 

_Breathe._

With you.

Breathe the way you breathe; suffer the way you suffer. If you're alive you breathe but there are roses planted in your lungs and every breath you take lets those thorns pierce the end of your skin and _god_  when you kiss her you want her to drink all of these fucking thoughts away and let these roses crawl into her lungs as well so she can live the way you live. Suffering. _Broken. Scarred._

Because god does it feel unfair to let a perfectly fine person be with someone who's not.

**v.**

_Free(dom)._

You can't give her that. You refuse to give her that. She's grown onto you for too long and so you've grown onto her as well, the roses that the world's sown upon your skin have pulled her in and have locked her to be by your side forever.

She's like a canary that's seeing for you eternally and you refuse to let it out of its cage so it can fly freely in the sky where it belongs.

Every thorn of the rose you call your illness, you've pierced into her skin and have caused blood to seep out of her flesh. This is your hope; you're pinning in onto her and hoping that she'll deal with it and would fix all of it as you try so too yourself. There's this macabre part at the back of your head that wants her to suffer with you, to _bleed_  with you and feel every shroud of hatred that runs in your mind. 

But you also don't want that. You don't want her to bleed with you, but it's too late.

**vi.**

And somehow even with all of this she still laughs. Laughs away the fear that tries to pry you two apart.

**vii.**

Still takes away the paranoia that fucks your brain

**viii.**

You can't let her go. She can't let herself go, not even if she tries

**xi.**

You've grown onto each other for too long.

**x.**

_Intertwined._

And god, no one's fucking free.

 


End file.
